


This Kind of Knowledge

by Mithrigil, puella_nerdii



Series: Self-Evident [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Hijinks, Historical, Humor, Kid Fic, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-22
Updated: 2010-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:05:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/pseuds/Mithrigil, https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_nerdii/pseuds/puella_nerdii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young America and Canada team up to steal a text on Tantric sexual techniques from England's study. Hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Kind of Knowledge

  
"He's going to cane you."

"No he's not," America says, elbowing the door to England's study open. Sometimes England locks it when he's away, but he didn't this time so America doesn't have to try to pick the lock or anything like that. (He's getting better at picking locks; he's been practicing on the big brass lock clasping his trunk shut.) "He's not even going to find out."

"He's England. He finds everything out," Canada says. He doesn't follow America into the room, just pokes his toe over the threshold like he thinks the floorboards will eat his foot. Or like he'll leave some mark on it, which is stupid because he's wearing slippers and scuff-marks stripe the floor and England can't untangle what belongs to who any better than America can.

"Well he won't this time. Not unless someone tells him," and he shoots Canada his best Look, the kind of Look England loves giving America, the _America be quiet_ or _America don't touch that_ or _America stop antagonizing your brother_ or _America respect that trade agreement_ Look, but his eyebrows aren't as bushy as England's so his Look probably isn't as scary.

Canada snarls, but he sticks his lip out so he looks more goofy than scary and America tries not to laugh, he really does. "You told him about me going to church with France on Michaelmas."

"That's different, you were being a Papist. This is just a book. Books can't hurt anyone."

"Can so."

"Cannot," America counters. "Not unless you hit someone over the head with them. And I won't. Promise." He clasps his hand over his heart so Canada knows he's not lying, and he isn't, he won't hit Canada over the head with the book unless Canada does something really stupid. Like rat him out to England.

"What's so special about this book anyway?" Canada asks.

America balances on his tiptoes. The book should be on the top shelf somewhere, if he's remembering right—and he remembers lots of things, there's so much _to_ remember and learn and discover and explore and England says sometimes he wishes America didn't retain so much but that's just because England gets mad when America repeats back some of the things he says when he thinks America's not listening. "So I was going into England's study a few nights ago because I couldn't sleep—"

"Because you're afraid of ghosts—"

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"No I'm _not_," America says, and stamps his foot on the ground.

"Yes you are. Also you woke me up too. And it was cold." Canada glares, but he's not very scary. Not like ghosts. Which he isn't actually scared of. If he saw one, he wouldn't be scared at all. (Except you can't see ghosts, that's the whole point.)

But just because you can't see them doesn't mean they aren't there, so America explains—because Canada hasn't gotten a proper education like he has, just stories trappers swap and fairytales from France—"Probably there were ghosts in the room. They make the air freeze." Everyone knows that.

"France says that even if there are ghosts they can't hurt us," says Canada, and that just proves how right America is about him, doesn't it?

"What does France know about anything? Anyway." Canada never lets him finish his stories. "I went into the study, and England had this book open on his desk, and when I asked him what it was he almost jumped out of his chair and his face got really red and he said _never you mind_ so it must've been something really good. And then he put it all the way up on the tallest shelf." America points; it's the one tucked between the two black books. The red spine's stamped with gold and he thinks he saw gold patterns curling around the corners of the cover, too, so it must be expensive. And expensive things are better, right? "And then he read me another story from a different book and sent me back to bed."

"But that's because he doesn't want you to know what's in it!"

"So that means whatever it is must be really good!"

Canada shakes his head, and his curls bounce all over the place and America kind of really wants to yank them. He could. England's not here to yell at him. But if he does Canada will run away and cry and then he'll never reach the book. See, America can too act like a little gentleman. "Maybe it's one of his secret magic books like the one he turned France into a frog with that one time and if you open it you'll let a whole bunch of angry ghosts loose on the house. And they'll keep saying Ameeeeeeeericaaaaaaa~" Canada opens his eyes wide and unhinges his jaw like he's going to eat—_don't be stupid_, America reminds himself, _it's just Canada, Canada's not scary and he doesn't eat people, just—mooses and stuff._ "And it'll be all your fault."

Okay, maybe America _will_ pull Canada's curls. He glares right back, hard. "If that happens I'll just tell the ghosts to eat _you._"

Canada digs his heels in and hunches his shoulders, props himself up against the doorframe. "You'll be too busy crying. And going to England and begging him to stay with you."

"Will not. Besides, he would if I asked him to. Anyway, if it was a magic book he would've looked different." He imitates England, scrunches up his eyebrows to make them thicker and wrinkles his nose. "'This kind of knowledge is too dangerous, America.' And he didn't say that, he said 'never you mind.'"

Ha, Canada's laughing, America sees him trying to bite his lips so he won't. "It's—it's still something we oughtn't fool with, America," he says when he's swallowed the giggles down.

"Come on, don't you want to know?"

"No. Not enough that I'll risk getting in trouble." He sticks his nose in the air, sniffs. Just like France, except France definitely gets into trouble, England says the damned Bourbons keep pawing at the continent like it's—and then he wouldn't finish because his ears got red when he realized America was listening.

"You don't have to do much," America says. "I just have to stand on your shoulders."

"But you said it was on the top shelf! That's too tall for even the two of us together! Even England has to stand on a chair!"

"Yeah, so you stand on a chair. And then I stand on your shoulders." The two of them stacked on top of each other are at least as tall as England is, maybe taller. England wouldn't let him test it out when he wanted to try it and see.

"—no!" Canada opens his eyes so wide that America thinks they're going to plop out of his head. "You'll fall!"

"Then you stand on _my_ shoulders." Wait, that won't work. "Except you don't know what the book looks like, right."

"America, this is dangerous."

Man, France must've kept Canada on a really tight leash. Everything's dangerous or bad or _we'll get in trouble_ or _England won't like that_ or _no I'm not going to tug on the buffalo's tail._ "Life's no fun without danger. Besides, I won't fall."

"You're going to do it anyway," Canada sighs.

Okay, so maybe he's not completely hopeless. "Uh-huh."

Canada half-whimpers half-groans and tucks his eyes behind his hands but America's getting to him, he knows he is.

"Come on," he wheedles, "I bet it's really good. It's in Indian," or whatever India calls his language, England says he has a lot of them but they all sound the same to America, "but it's got pictures, I saw part of one before England closed the book."

"It's in Indian? I thought you hated everything to do with India!"

"Not everything," America says, and it's true, the tea's okay. And, um, some of the clothes are nice, or at least the colors are, and the linen's really light. "Just, you know, the snakes and stuff. So are you gonna help me or not?"

Canada sighs again. "I don't want to get in trouble too and I don't think you should do it at all."

"I'm not going to get in trouble!" England's not even _here_. This is stupid, is Canada listening to him at all or is he just complaining because he wants to complain?

"Yes you are because—" Canada falters. "Because I'm going to tell him! Like you told him on me about church."

America marches over and presses his nose almost to Canada's, so no matter how much Canada shrinks back it's not enough. "If you tell on me I'm going to put a frog in your bed. A big dead _squishy_ one."

Canada twitches.

"And then I'll put worms in your slippers," he continues. "Lots of them."

"S-so?" Canada wriggles to the side and scoots into the room, hugs the wall, which you actually shouldn't do in a fight, America remembers, because someone can trap you pretty easily. "I don't care. I'll make new slippers and maybe England will sleep with me for once." But his voice is shaking just like his knees are, America can hear it.

And besides, England never sleeps with Canada. "No he won't."

"Yes he will. He'll call you a little heathen and he'll notice me and take care of me because you're a brat."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Fine," he says. "I'll get the book all by myself, okay? All you have to do is not tell on me." He can do it himself. He does lots of things himself. He _has_ to do lots of things himself, and he shoots Canada a mean look when he thinks that last part.

"Fine," Canada says, and hmphs. "And when England finds out anyway he'll cane you."

"Will not." Okay, America can't reach the top bookshelf with just the one chair, but there's another one in the corner of the room, a straight-backed black one. He drags it over, grunts, heaves it up and stacks it on top of the first one. It wobbles a little when the legs clatter against the seat, but America shifts it around until the back looks straight again. He can climb that. He can totally climb that. Really. He won't fall, he's America, he never falls.

Canada coughs from the corner. "—America that looks really unsteady—"

"Well I _could_ always stand on your shoulders instead," America points out.

He hesitates.

"Just for a few seconds?"

Canada squinches his eyes shut. "Only because I don't want you to get hurt."

America practically flings the top chair off to the side. It lands somewhere behind him, he doesn't hear any big crashes or wood splintering so it must be all right. "Okay, come on, hurry. I want to see what's inside." If the pictures make England turn red, they must be something good.

Canada pouts again and clambers up on the chair, he's so slow sometimes, and America hops up right after him, braces his hands on Canada's shoulders and hoists himself up—"Hold still," he says because Canada's squirming, "actually hold on, maybe you should duck first so I can climb up."

"But I'm not as strong as you, if I duck will it still be enough to—"

"It'll be fine, just do it."

Canada ducks, and America scrambles onto his shoulders, crouches just like Canada's doing and curls his toes so they'll grip better. "Okay, now stand back up. And hold on to my ankles."

He straightens and takes forever to do it and wobbles pretty badly for a second when America uncurls and extends his arms all the way out to his sides for support, but even though his knees still tremble, his legs stop quaking enough that America can move without thinking he's going to get thrown off at any minute. "This is a really bad idea—"

"You worry too much," America says, because it's true. He fumbles for the book—his fingertips swipe along the spine, but he can't quite grab it, England pushed the book towards the back so the black volumes guard it, he just needs a few more inches "Move forward a little."

"I can't."

"Just sort of scooch—"

Canada says "wah" and totters a lot, bumps his knee on the shelf, which launches forwards a little, _oof_, he almost topples off Canada's shoulders but he snatches the book as he dives, scrabbles between the black volumes and closes his fingers around the spine (the cover's softer than normal leather, like it took a long time to cure) and pulls—"Ugh, it's heavy," it looked skinny on the shelf but the cover weighs a ton—

"Get off," Canada whimpers, "get off quick, I'm going to fall—"

There, he grunts and heaves and pries it loose. "Got it!" But when he yanks it out the book thumps against his chest from the recoil and he sails backwards, wobbles, his feet are skittering on Canada's shoulders—

—and the chair twists and crashes on its side and sends America and Canada hurtling down, America's chin scrapes along the shelf as he falls and the book slips from his hands and thuds somewhere to the side but he doesn't smack into the floor because Canada cushions it for him. He winds up with one leg wrapped around the back of the chair and the other hooked through Canada's elbow. "Ow," he says, and extracts his legs as best he can even if he whacks Canada in the face with his heel when he's trying to get out.

Canada's rubbing his head and then his bottom, which you shouldn't do in public but maybe France didn't teach him manners very well. "America, I told you so—ooooww."

"I still have it, though." He plucks the book from the other side of the chair, where the seat was guarding it. "See? It worked out."

"But I'm going to have a big old bruise and it's going to hurt to sit down and _I hope you're happy_."

"Yep!" America beams. "Come on, let's see what's in it." He cracks the book open and starts—well, not reading, exactly, the words are in India's funny language but that's okay; "I know the pictures are in here somewhere," he mutters, keeps flipping through, maybe some of the pages got stuck together, no, there's an illustration right—

There.

That.

Um.

It's, um. It's a man and a woman and they, um, they don't have any clothes on and they're both smiling at whoever's drawing this—someone _drew_ this—and the woman's ankles are hooked around the man's—and he's touching her—and his _tongue_—America pulls back from the book to take it all in and asks, "—how do you _do_ that?"

Canada's poking at the bruises on his rear and wincing and who _cares_ about his bottom, this—"Canada, Canada, _look._"

"No."

"You have to see this." He almost doesn't want to, but he flips the page, and there's the man and woman again, or maybe it's a different man and a different woman, and she's upside down and he's holding her ankles and she's holding—what _is_ she holding and how did she get her elbows there and what's going in her—"Oh my god, that's _gross_!"

"I don't care," Canada sniffles.

America sets the book down and tries to show him, but he can't make his arms and legs move like that and he's only one person and no matter how wide he spreads his arms he can't get them as wide as her legs were. He doesn't think. "But she's got her legs here and his are here and then their arms are doing this," and ow he really hurt his shoulder when he tried to twist it to the side like that, "and—" He uncurls himself enough to crawl over to where the book's sprawled open so he can check what happens next, and it looks like someone's pointing to—"Five mangoes?" He uncrosses his legs, at least, turns the page with his chin more than anything else. "What do they need with five—"

And then he sees.

"Ew! Ew!"

"America, my rear end hurrrrts."

"So does hers!"

"I—what?'

"Come on, look."

"But I'm going to get in even more trouble and it already hurts there and—" But Canada's crawling closer in spite of himself and America thrusts the book in his face so fast that Canada recoils.

Canada looks.

Blinks.

Tilts his head. "—five mangoes?"

"I think they're mangoes. India really likes mangoes." America looks again even though, well, maybe he shouldn't, the more he looks the more he—yeah. "_Really_ likes them."

"...do you think this is what England does with India?"

And America can't drop the book fast enough. "_Eww!_"

Canada grimaces. Serves him right. That, that, what does he think he—with—he doesn't think England, England of all people, England would ever—with the mangoes and the smiling and the—

"That's gross, Canada. That's just gross." He's spent far, far too much time with France. Clearly.

"But it's his book," Canada says, "and India does this and England likes doing things other countries do and—"

No, no, no way. "But not like this—and besides, I don't think England can hold his legs that far apart—" he adds when he steals a glance at the book again and tries to settle his legs into something like that, but even trying hurts.

Canada squints and says, "I don't think anyone can."

America turns the page and he has to hold the book upside down and rotate it around a few times to figure out whose head is attached to what and what belongs to whom and who's going where and, and—"Is that a—"

"I don't know what that is."

"I think that's his arm, it has to be—" America turns book upside down again and props it between his knees, tests it out, wrenches his arm behind his head. Ow. "Unless his leg's _here_ and his knee's up _here_ so his arm goes—"

"But if his leg's all the way over there, how can he reach—?"

"Maybe if the rock's shaped right?" America thinks about that one for a second, peers at the book again. "Wait, is that a rock or is that a—"

Canada's making noises in the back of his throat like "um" and "aah" but America can't make out what they are and he wishes Canada would just come out and say things sometimes. Like America does. More nations should do that, he thinks. "No, Canada, really, is that an elephant—and then the tail— "

"Yes, America. An elephant," England says—

_ **England.** _

Oops.

America scrambles to his feet, tries to hide the book behind his back, but England's eyes are burning holes in the cover and—"It was Canada's idea!" he shouts, because that's what pops into his head first and well, he was just thinking about how it's good to come out and say things so he's following up on that and he's in big trouble, isn't he.

Canada squeaks and shoots him a dirty look but he's scrambling for the door as fast as his legs can carry him and ducking behind the frame until just the top of his curl's visible and even that's shaking, bobbing. Did he—he abandoned America. He left him here. He totally left him here all on his own. In front of England. Who has the stern face on. The really really stern face.

England extends his hand for the book. "Give it here, America."

America gives England his best innocent face, even if it mostly stopped working on England a few decades ago. "Give what here?"

"Do not play me for a fool, America. Give it here."

He hands it over, scuffles his feet against the ground. Oh, this is going to hurt. "...are you going to cane me?"

"Not hard. Turn around."

America squinches his eyes shut and shuffles until he's facing the other way and tenses—or wait, he should relax, that's what makes it hurt less, but before he can pick one way or the other England smacks him once, firmly, on the rump with the book. "Ow," America says, and flinches.

England rights and straightens the chair, stands on it, and replaces the book on its shelf, sighing. This time he pushes it all the way to the back, so the black volumes swallow it, block it from America's sight. "Whatever am I going to do with you, America?" he says, half to the ceiling.

And it's because he's so quiet about it—America's stomach plummets to somewhere around his knees and his head doesn't droop that low but it almost feels heavy enough to. "I just wanted to look..."

"You're not old enough yet to become familiar with those things."

"I don't want to do them!" America yelps; he swears he jumps about a foot in the air, though jumping up that high might make it possible to—ew, ew, no.

England pauses, then shudders. "That gladdens me immensely."

"I just thought—" America swallows, hard. "They're only pictures, right?"

England closes his eyes; he still won't look at America. "If they were only pictures, would I have hidden them so?"

"...sorry," he mumbles.

"Do you not trust me, America, to know what is best for you?"

"I trust you, England." And he does, it's just—he's a lot bigger than he used to be, he had new clothes made for him last winter even though his old ones weren't worn through at all, and he's almost tall enough to pick the apples from the tree in the backyard now, and—that should mean something, shouldn't it?

"And from now on, when I keep something hidden...?"

"I won't look for it." Mostly. Well, technically, he doesn't have to look for this one, he knows where it is, but he's not going to say that. "...but I can see it someday, right?"

"When the time comes," England says, "I will permit it."

America hugs England around the middle.

England pats him on the head, ruffles his hair, and America can hear him smiling when he says, "And I do expect you to repair this chair."

"Eng_laaaaaaand_..."

***

**Author's Note:**

>   
> So [Tantra](http://health.discovery.com/centers/sex/tantric/tantricsex.html) actually isn't unspeakably kinky sex, it's more about sex as a means of transformation and connection instead of recreation. All exaggeration is for the sake of lulz.
> 
> (Admittedly, some of the poses require more flexibility than others.)
> 
> And no, it's not the Kama Sutra, just an illustrated text on Tantric sexual techniques. England is -- worldly, what can I say.


End file.
